


Dixon and Son

by Sintina



Series: No Cars [4]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fatherhood, No Car For Beth Fan Request, Their Son - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-05-28 11:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6327403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintina/pseuds/Sintina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after I swore I was done writing Bethyl, I'm back in their sweet embrace. I had a fan request this Daryl Dixon and Son story. She said nice things that made my writer heart hum. And this is the result. Rated M for smut, because I can't resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Years Old

“Blake Herschel-Merle Dixon! You get down from there right now!” Beth calls from the porch to her little hellion of a son, who’s managed the daunting task of climbing into the saddle of his father’s Harley and now makes a pitiful attempt to grasp the handlebars. Gravity is about to teach the child his arms won’t reach for years. Leaning so far forward is going to hurt. Beth’s shoulders clench for the inevitable wailing. Blake’s risen up to his knees, even more precarious, and his ineffective fingertips wiggle and stretch.

"What you doin' there, boy?" Daryl’s voice gruffs with mock seriousness, as the man himself stomps out from the depths of his shop. Blake freezes. Gravity is no match for a caught child's muscles, stiffening at the sound of his father's voice. 

Beth exhales the air she was clutching deep in her lungs. She leans against the archway atop the porch stairs, ready for a show. Daryl stands over Blake, a tree whose height puts the sapling in shadow. His son's round eyes look up in that boyish blend of innocence, apology, fear, and playfulness; Blake's most practiced expression. 

"Well?" Daryl's eyes squint and he crosses his arms, "You gonna mind your ma, or what?" From the porch, Beth can see Daryl's glance flick up to her. There's a play at the corner of his mouth that suggests he's toying with his child like a barn cat with a mole. She wonders who will break first.

Blake doesn't know if his father is being serious or not, but doesn't chance it. He takes a protracted amount of time wiggling and craning his stumpy appendages towards the ground and finally lands in front of his father, who can't take it anymore. In a single, somehow sexy, motion, Daryl scoops Blake up and flings the boy, giggling hysterically, over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Beth beams as Daryl carries the squealing miscreant toward her. The hand that clutches Blake's midsection a blur of tickling fingers. 

"Didn't ya hear your ma on the porch, there?" Daryl spins around on his heel, to point Blake's face toward the porch so he can see his mother.

Blake erupts in laughing hiccups: "Nuh-uh-ha!-No-SIR!" his face is red from hanging upside down and from the hysterics. He tries to raise his head enough to look at his mom and fails. Even Beth begins to giggle. She tries to regain composure when Daryl plunks Blake down on the second porch step below her; the accused before the judge. 

"I've told you a dozen times, that bike is your father's toy. Not yours," She straightens up to her best authoritative height. She's always felt like this kid will be taller than her by he time he's ten. She assesses those too-long legs. Twelve at the latest. Then she'll be looking up at everyone in this house.

Blake shuffles his feet and bites his lip. Daryl smirks. Just like his mother. Between the two of them, Daryl has to keep a steady supply of lip balm around here. Blake's got his mom's lips, too. He's gonna be trouble once girls notice. Daryl looks up at Beth's mouth, with those little points at the cleft of her upper lip that she gave to their son. He involuntarily licks his own shapeless lips and wants to run his fingertip over that perfect divot because she smiles every time he does. The kid's cleverness breaks the spell: 

"Aren't I supposed to share my toys? Why can't Daddy share too?" This question stumps Daryl, but Beth's quick on the draw.

"Daddy's toys are dangerous for little boys. Right, Daddy?" Blake wheels around on his father for confirmation and Daryl recovers from the shock of Beth's mothering reflexes with a grunt.

"Tha's right. I told ya before," Daryl squats, so he's looking up at Blake, "When yer grown, then..." 

"I'm six next month!" Blake bursts.

"Boy!" Daryl's voice is harsh, and he grabs Blake's shoulder, gives it a shake, "No interrupting your elders!" Blake's eyes puddle up instantly and he sniffles. Daryl softens, red clay in this child's palm. "We tell ya all the time, stuff's dangerous. You got to mind." He exhales, and Beth sees the faces of dozens of lost loved ones parade behind her husband's eyes. She sits down on the top step, her knees come up to either side of little Blake, his back still facing her. She covers Daryl's hand on Blake's shoulder with her own. Her fingers glide between his big knuckles and she feels the tense grip loosen. Blake's shoulders relax just as quick.

"Honey, we love you. That's why Mom and Dad try so hard to keep you safe, you understand?" Blake's head nods vigorously, but he doesn't turn around to face his mother. Daryl smirks up at Beth, because the kid's eyes are clenched shut so tight to keep from bawling. When the kid's whole face crinkles up like that, it always reminds him of her. She used to give him that stubborn crinkled face, too. He realizes he ought to say something.

"You about busted your head wide open just now," there's a hint of laughter in his voice, so Blake opens his eyes. Daryl seizes them with his own stare to drive the message home, "Healing supplies are scarce, boy. We can't be wasting them on you doing dumb shit." Beth swats his hand, and Daryl grunts, " _Stuff_. Am I right?" 

"Yes sir," Blake whispers, head lower, "I'm sorry." 

"Alright then," Beth wraps her son up in her arms and legs, surprising him, and he leans back into her embrace. Daryl can't help but be pulled into the gravity of their combined tenderness. His long arms envelope them both, his forehead rests for a moment on Beth's before she pulls back and kisses Blake's crown, "Since we can't let you out of our sight, you little booger," her fingers poke his ribs and he explodes with tickle giggles again, "you gonna spend the afternoon helping me or your Dad?"

"Can we check my trap?!" Blake looks up with anticipation at Daryl who shakes his head. 

"Ain't been but a few hours since you set it," he grunts, "Gotta wait till tomorrow morning. " 

"Did you really set a trap all by yourself today, son?" Beth asks with genuine enthusiasm. 

"Yes, ma'am!" He cheers, "I'm gonna catch a rabbit!" 

\----------------

It's Daryl's turn to read Blake's bedtime story. Beth thinks it's kind of weird that the kid picks Peter Rabbit after his enthusiasm to trap one earlier. As she gets ready for bed in her room down the hall, she begins to wonder and worry over Blake's level of understanding about trapping animals for food. Is he going to freak out when Daryl skins it? Blake is an attentive and curious child. Maybe he's already seen his father skin animals before? Beth peers out the window, looking for the reflective markers on the bodies of the perimeter guards. It's a habit she's had since the night, some eighteen months ago, when walkers invaded the compound.

The Dixons live at a fairly secure 4-H farming campground. It was once used as an agricultural training center for week long kids' retreats and summer camps, they were told. Three residential farm houses, homes of the original proprietors, form a cul de sac at the end of the main entry road. There are several cottages, where campers used to stay, checkered in neat rows on the grounds, a couple of acres behind each house. The rest of the secluded compound is filled with acres of grazing fields, two barns, several shops, a grain silo, and the stables. Long before Beth and Daryl arrived, some group or another had triple fenced the exterior perimeter. Three fences, first ten feet, then eight, then four. The first two were chain link, and newer, with some razor wire through some sections, clearly built after the outbreak. The last was a wood and stone work wall that must have dated back to the plantation era of this property. The night watch walked the perimeter, inside the compound, along the wood and stone fence. The reflectors let everyone know they were still walking and none of them had fallen asleep, as was the case last time.

That night, walkers became real for Blake. He'd seen them before. Seen both his parents kill a few. But Beth didn't think he appreciated the true danger they presented until that night. It was a valuable, if terrifying lesson. The little boy, only four at the time, didn't sleep alone for months afterwards and he still has nightmares and comes running to their bed, even now. That was also the night Daryl and Beth earned their move to a bigger house. They lived in one of the cottages for three years, before that night. Beth appreciated the upgrade. This house feels more like a home. But she sighed, they would have moved up eventually anyway, without the trauma to her little boy. People were already talking about it, before that night. Daryl secured some fifty percent of the meat everyone was eating by then. 

_Think of the devil_ , she jokes to herself, as Daryl's boot falls stomp down the hallway. His head and shoulders make it through their bedroom door before Blake calls for him in that plaintive, scared little boy, voice. Daryl looks at Beth, as if she'd ever get up when it was his night, wipes his hand from his forehead through his hair, in a show of frustration, and turns around. He closes his own bedroom door softly behind him, lest Beth be further disturbed. She chuckles, knowing that last move was a bit passive aggressive. No matter how much she loves him, she knows Daryl wishes she'd do more "child rearing" and not make him do so much. He loves his son, but he never knows what to do, he always said. What he won't accept, no matter how many times Beth tells him, is that he's better at all this stuff than she is. He's more patient. He's more fun. He has more to teach Blake that's useful these days. Beth was almost a 24/7 parent with baby Blake, just as she'd been with Little Ass Kicker, but now that he's older, he clings to his father like glue.

An hour later, Daryl removes his boots before leaving Blake's room. He slides silently down the hall and opens his bedroom door without a creak. Snuggled up in her blankets in bed, Beth is reading Gone With the Wind. She looks adorable and perfect, until he realizes she's crying. Beth looks up with a gasp. She was around the point when Scarlet and Rhett’s little daughter dies. She's sniffling and blubbering, she can’t help it. Sometimes it feels good to let it out like this, over a good book, rather than suddenly out of nowhere, while washing dishes or something. Beth wedges the heels of her hands in her eyes to try and dry them. But, even without tears, the redness in and around her eyes is bright and evident. Daryl’s brow scrunches up at the sight of his wife in such a state. But he tries to make light of it.

"What happened? Did their kid die again?" He smirks as he peels his upper arms out of his shirt sleeves. Beth scoffs and throws a pillow at him. Daryl picks it up and tosses it back, "Again? That girl's got some shitty parents, keep letting her die over and over."

"Damn it, Daryl!" Beth giggles, trying to be mad at him. He likes that this is a problem he can solve by making her laugh. He pulls at his pant leg while asking: 

"That book makes you cry every time, why keep at it?" 

"Well, it's a good book. Takes place in Georgia, which makes me think of home, and it helps me..." she shrugs, "I don't know, deal with stuff." 

"By bawling your eyes out?" He's got boxers on as he lifts the comforter and rolls it away from his side of the bed. It's too hot for him, even in the cool air of autumn. Thinking of summer's heat, Beth misses the days when they slept naked in their cabin. Blake was too young to recognize their indecency. She pulls at the comforter wrapped tight all around her. Sure, she's a little warm, but the softness is so, well, comforting.

"When I read it... I get to thinking what might have happened to Blake that night..." and she whimpers.

He leans over and takes her into his side with one strong arm, comforter and all. "Don't do this to yourself," he says knowing she won't listen.

"It's okay, love," she sniffles, "It feels good to cry like this. Crying because I want to cry." 

Daryl considers. "Suppose it beats the alternative."

"Exactly." She snuggles into him, her limbs trying to free themselves of the comforter to get more direct Daryl contact. "I love you," she coos as one her legs is liberated and hitches over his knee. His hips angle closer, so she can get in his lap when she's fully untangled. Beth makes an exaggerated effort of it, reminding herself of Blake getting off the motorcycle. She meant to ask Daryl: "What was wrong with Blake?"

"Scared of bad dreams, s'all." Daryl shrugs, "Maybe we should try getting him scared when he wants to be scared?" He's teasing, because whether the crying makes her feel better or not, it always makes him uncomfortable. 

"You know..." Beth pretends to consider and he pokes her in the ribs. Then she nudges him accusing, "It would work if that boy of yours was scared of anything whatsoever!"

"Mine when he's reckless, huh?" Daryl's eyes almost disappear in his squint. His other arm gets around her waist and hoists her up in his lap. The thin layers of a single sheet and her pajama pants separate his groin from her perfect little cheeks. He adjusts his hips so her ass falls into the V made by his legs. She likes this arrangement and kisses his cheek in appreciation before leaning her head back on his bent knee with a sigh. His fingers brush strands of hair behind her ear. "You know you ain't got to be so worried about him." 

"Do I?" She closes her eyes, remembering, "I felt safe back then. I felt secure here. It's been too long. Being in one place so long makes us complacent, Daryl." 

"That's the old life talking." Daryl supposes Beth gets this way because the outbreak happened when she was so young, took so much from her so fast. He can't relate to the way she experiences things, never could. But he knows he's right about this. "Life's not like it was. Fewer walkers every year." Beth looks away, because she doesn't believe it. People tell her, try to explain to her, the hordes are decaying and not being replaced. There's not enough people dying anymore to make as many new zombies as were made during the outbreak. And the outbreak zombies have to decay sometime. She thinks it's just a story survivors are telling themselves to justify the fact that you don't see hordes like you used to. But she doesn't believe it. Walkers are immortal. Even if they decay, they still hunger. Daryl's voice breaks the fear spiral: "People having babies, on purpose," and he bucks his hips, for emphasis.

She knows he's trying to be suggestive, it almost works. But her mind's not fully out of the sadness, yet. "You're right about that," she muses, her voice fallen. Blake may be growing up sheltered, which is more than Beth ever dreamed of when he was born, while they were still living like nomads. But he's not alone. Two women were pregnant, one couple had a boy Blake's age, when the Dixons arrived here. People were already feeling safer back then. Blake has seven playmates now. The adults joke the community only needs two more for a real basketball game. Beth was comfortable making jokes like that before. Maybe it was staying up night after night for six months with her screaming son that reminded her life will never be safe, never really. 

"Beth?" Daryl sees that thousand mile stare. He's seen it before. Most of the time, his wife is big-eyed and beautiful Beth Greene, her unflappable faith and optimism a sight to behold. The woman who made him believe there were more decent and trustworthy survivors left alive than villains and scoundrels. But every once in a while, he sees the terrified little girl on her Daddy's farm who slit her wrists to avoid living like this. He has to give this side of Beth credit, if she'd died that day, she never would have seen her Daddy beheaded or any of the other horrors since. He knows what to say, though. They say it to each other and to their son. "Get your mind out of the past. Life is now." He flexes his hips to squeeze her between them. And he remembers part of that Bible verse she always says: "Sufficient unto the day."

Beth has to chuckle at hearing her own mantras used against her. After a huge inhale and exhale, sighing the bad thoughts away, she turns her bright smile to face this perfect husband God's given her. "Thank you," she says, not just to Daryl. 

Daryl grins, there's that Beth who believes in the future. He's proud of himself for bringing her back so quickly. "I'm getting good at this," he jokes, leaning in to kiss her as she laughs. Beth's arms come around his waist in their kiss. As his lips play with her mouth, teasing, her fingers flex and massage his lower back; taut sinews of strength flexing at her touch. Daryl's chest bows up with the sensation and he draws her in against him, craning her neck, as his mouth moves harder, deeper into her own. She has to pull away to breathe. He hasn't kissed her like that in a while, their eyes meet and they both smile, seeing the haziness they've caused one another. Beth's eyes dart to the door. They're both silent for a moment as they listen for stirring down the hall. Then her hand confidently grabs his shaft, the familiar hardness beneath their sheet and his boxers. She strokes once, twice, then asks: 

"What are you waiting for?" in that heavy voice that makes Daryl's skin hot with hunger.

"My wife to quit crying?" he chuckles and she lets go of his member in a huff. 

"I'll cry if I want to," she quips in the cadence of that old song, pouting. He can't tell if she's serious as she tries to wriggle out from between his legs. He clamps them shut on her. Rolls over to pin her beneath him, his mouth lavishing her neck and collar bone all the while. She sighs, her voice low and lustful, "You realize this is positive reinforcement for my crying, right?" 

He bites her shoulder, "You and those damn parenting books." He slides her pajama shirt up to her armpits and sups on her breasts as her hand finds the elastic of his boxers and makes room to get at what's inside. He raises his hips just enough to give her roving fingertips more purchase. As she works him, his tongue swirls her nipples in the way that makes her hum and purr every time. Then he raises up with a laugh, "You got some extra tears you can use for lube?"

"Daryl! Damn it!" She laughs, struggles and kicks, playful and trying not to actually knee him in the groin, although that would serve him right. Finally, she tosses her head back and snorts, "Quit being such a prick!"

He runs a hand through her hair and smiles, a tender expression lighting up his features, "Sorry. Shouldna kept at it. I just like'ta make'ya laugh, s'all." His lips gave more apology to hers, gentle, soothing, and she easily forgave him as she was never really mad about it.

Beth rolls on her side and blows out one of the candles on a side table. A reminder that they don't have much time, if they want to actually get any sleep tonight. Blake's liable to wake up in a couple hours and crawl into bed with them, giving them both a fitful night of sleep thereafter as the kid squirms, tosses and hogs the covers. They've been screwing around on borrowed time. Daryl silently agrees and all the flirtatious games are dispensed with, as are their remaining layers. Beth's pajama bottoms scrunched up at the foot of the bed and Daryl's boxers dangle from one ankle. He sits up on his knees, she looks up, all of him on full display like this, each of his muscles highlighted in the remaining flickering lights. It's almost like the edges of him are glowing, all the lengths of firm skin alight. She involuntarily licks her lips because she knows what's coming. He does it like this when they're in a hurry, it's the fastest way to get them both off. 

Daryl's rough hands grip her hips and pull up, so her ass is fully off the bed and in his lap, her knees hiked on either side of his ribs. His hips are now perfectly positioned to pivot straight and hard inside her. But for the moment, his cock's pressed against his lower belly, their genitals rub roughly and she bucks when her clit grazes his upright shaft. Holding her legs like the handles of a plow, he rises and lowers himself, his shaft gliding vertically along her folds. Daryl loves the way her breath rasps with the anticipation of it. She always looks so perfectly fuckable like this, mouth hanging just open, eyes half lidded, tongue playing with her teeth and lips like she needs something to suck on. His cock quivers to get inside her, she flexes her thighs in response, squeezing, beckoning.

Then they're joined, connected, at last. And he stops a moment, deep within her, as far as he can go, to look down at her and she at him. That first thrust, it's always the best, the first and the last, really. Everything in between feels great, too, of course. But right now they look at one another, huge inhales and exhales, they feel one another relax and drink in this moment. Life is hard, it sucks most of the time, but they have each other. They always come home to each other and can always look forward to this moment of interlocking, again and again, for as long as they both shall live. That's what the Dixons' eyes say to one another in this first thrust, just about every time, lately. It's home. They're home and they're safe, together. Beth's pelvis slowly rocks up against him, and she flexes her thighs again, and their typical tender moment of reassurance is gone. He plows into her with the ease, fluidity, and force of one of the pistons in his Harley. She grabs a pillow and nearly suffocates herself with it, trying to muffle the sounds he thrusts from her windpipe against her will. Daryl's jaw is clenched tight against his own guttural noises straining for release; his grunts snort softly out through his nose instead. They're used to doing it like this, as quiet as possible, and still Blake wakes up as often as not because of something else entirely. 

They're both close and he slows, lowers her legs to the bed, rides the wave down on top of her, pressing himself against her, trying to last a few more precious minutes with her. This sex is a release of stress, of tension, after all. It's a form of letting go of the worries of the day, finally, and laying comfortably in the solace of each other. The heat melds their bodies together in a sheen of sweat. She grips his shoulders, locks her legs around his hips, rocking gently with him and he whispers how ardently he loves her into her neck. She loves him too. God, she loves him so much, a few tears crease their way out of her clenched eyelids and her whole body shudders with the warm release, at last. He ripples inside of her, pulsing with the surge and pulls out quickly, flopping down on top of her in a heap of spent sinews. 

They breathe heavily together without moving, still clutching and clinging. She softly kisses a spot beneath his ear at the bone that begins his jawline. He nibbles affection at her earlobe and she squirms, digging her nails into his back. He rolls off her onto his side of the bed, kicking the sheets off, too, as even they are too hot for the moment. She smiles as he looks around for his boxers and points to where she thinks they ended up. She rises and walks over to a basket of clean, dry laundry in the corner, still unfolded, and pulls out a towel to wipe herself off with. Then offers it to Daryl. He mops his face and hair of sweat and throws the towel in the dirty clothes hamper. Then he scoops up her pajama bottoms and tosses them to her with a wink. She grins, putting them on and rearranges the comforter on her side of the bed. She's already feeling a chill, half naked in the open air without Daryl's warmth pressed against her.

Re-situated in bed, they blow out candles on either side, kiss each other's smiling faces good night, and in the quiet darkness, race one another to fall asleep first. Daryl wins and Beth enjoys the sounds of his slumber as her last thoughts before she drifts off as well.


	2. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake's older, the Dixons are wiser, life goes on.  
> Oh, and they have a working shower now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I forgot how great this fandom is! I've received so much love and patience since posting the first chapter all those long months ago. Thank you all.  
> I hope it's worth the wait, because this is the **longest** fan fiction chapter I've ever written!! Seriously. This is a marathon. Settle in with your snacks and beverages. Love you Bethyl readers lots! Thanks for being the best. ~Sintina

Blake downs his lunch in a hurry. In truth, he barely touches the beans and rice leftover from last night. He’s ready to go. 

“You sure you don’t want Cody to come with you?” his mom calls from outside. How does she always know when he’s done eating? If Blake's got somewhere to be, his mom finds a way to slow him down. 

For the millionth time, “Cody’s not into this stuff, mom!” She's always nagging him about the _friends_ he’s supposed to hang out with. Just because they’re the only people his age, doesn’t mean he has to like them. He slings his backpack over his shoulders, “Can I go now?” 

“You did all your chores, right?” The screen door slams behind Beth as she walks into the kitchen, wiping her dirt-stained hands on a dish rag.

Blake exhales an overzealous sigh that turns to a groan. “Of course, mom, or I wouldn’t be going…” the grinding voice of an exasperated youth, dealing with dim-witted adults. 

“Hey now,” she swoops in on him, plants a kiss in his dusty blond-brown hair, “You don’t use that tone with your father, do you?” He straightens up, never knowing when his dad is just around the corner. 

“No, ma’am,” he says in apology. His mom’s been in the garden; she smells of fresh rosemary and those oils all the women make to use as sunscreen. He hates the way that stuff feels on his skin and hopes she’s not about to slather some all over his face.

“Whatcha looking for today?” she asks, wrapping a few cornbread biscuits in a clean hand towel. 

“Besides picking kudzu, I’m pretty sure the Chanterelle mushrooms should be out by now. I want to get us some.” He lies casually and effortlessly to his mother, his voice like telling her the sky is blue. He's not sure why he does it. Blake actually will pick kudzu and mushrooms while he's out there, so it's not even a full lie, really. She probably wouldn’t care about his other plans, but why chance it? His mom unzips his backpack and drops the wrapped biscuits inside.

Beth kisses the top of his head again, as he stands up to sling his backpack on the table and reorganize the contents so her cornbread isn’t in the way of something he might want sooner. Beth watches noting that her son still can’t look her in the eye. Well, if he stands on his tiptoes and she’s not wearing her boots, he can look right at her. But most of the time his eyes are square with her upper lip and the tip of her nose. He’ll be taller than her this summer, for sure. She smiles a little sadly and he notices. 

“Don’t worry so much, mom,” he flashes a closed-lip genuine smile that’s part hers and part Daryl’s. She used to melt at the sight of it, but now she tries not to ‘fuss’ over every adorable thing about him. He’s too old for that now. 

“I’m not worried, just waiting to see if you need anything else?” She sticks her hand on her hip, trying to be cool. 

“Nah, thanks, I’m good!” he wheels the sack over his shoulders and charges past the table for the door. It opens before he gets there as his father strides into the room. 

“Don’t forget your radio, boy!” Daryl chucks the 2 mile, shortwave, walkie-talkie at him, “Why I gotta keep telling ya?”

“Sorry Dad!” Blake catches it and snaps the clip onto his belt before dodging any more parental interruptions on his way out the door. He’s careful to close the screen without a slam, but then bounds down the porch steps with thunder in his long legs. He’s a little way down the lawn when the door creaks behind him. 

“That battery charged?” Daryl’s voice booms, “You check’em this morning?” 

Blake wheels around and makes quick work of popping the radio off his belt again to examine its tiny orange screen in his hand. “Still good, full charge, thanks Dad!” as he’s already trotting away. For added confirmation, Blake hits a two-tone code on his radio which immediately blares out of his father's. Old man's gonna go deaf one of these days, keeping that thing on so loud, Blake chuckles to himself.

Daryl shakes his head as he reenters the kitchen. He looks worn out, stressed, even with his back to her. Beth's mind begins working. It's been a long few weeks, planting season, plus Daryl teaches tracking and hunting now, a few hours each day. Beth was on perimeter night patrol last week. When was the last time they slept together? Their son is gone, for probably hours, so...

“Thanks,” Beth tries to get his attention, leaning back on the kitchen table, chest out, with both her hands propped on either side of her hips. She thought about hopping up on the table, but the legs are wobbly and wouldn't destroying furniture just kill the mood? He eyes her sideways as if suddenly remembering her presence. His gaze still wanders after the back of their son, nearly to the woods, now. 

“What for?”

“Remembering the radio and batteries, and all,” she smirks at how distracted he is, “I always forget to check for that.” Blake’s gone into the shadow of the woods; he can’t go further than a couple miles, the range of the radio. 

“Gets it from you, eh?” Daryl grunts and pours himself a glass of water, drinking heavily. She watches the roll of his Adam's apple as he swallows and her cheeks strain in a ready grin. Yeah, it's been too long for both of them. Finally, his attention turns, he eyes her up and down. For a brief second, she thinks he's noticed her flirtation, but then: “Where’s your radio, huh?” Beth gasps, wide eyed, and guilty. Daryl's eyes squint. “Boy’s off in the wild by himself and you ain’t even clutchin' it to your chest?”

Beth likes this. He's suspicious. She'll help him get to the bottom of this mystery. “It’s upstairs. I forgot he was going out today,” she demurs, making eyes that he still doesn't notice, "I've had my mind on other things."

"Hmph." He looks away out the window again. But as she watches his shoulders, she can actually see the moment he recognizes her _attentions_. The pheromones must have finally reached his man-brain. He turns on her slowly, lower eyelids squinting up in question.

“We stink, Mr. Dixon,” she raises her soil and clay caked hands, “this is gross.”

It all clicks for him. Daryl's eyes rove over her dirty limbs. There's a dusting of the outdoors in her hair, smudged on her cheeks, matted to her knees. He can feel the grime clinging to his own skin, clumped in his hair by sweat and sun.

He saddles closer to her, runs a finger up her forearm like he's checking for dust on Blake's dresser. He presents the clay coated fingerprint right in front of her nose. “Dirty skin makes for a dirty mind, Mrs. Dixon." His hands grip the tabletop on either side of hers. His arms now box her in. "Better hit the showers, hmm?” His face moves closer and the smell of him, grease, manure, sour day-old sweat, turns up her nose. 

“You’re damn right!” she pushes him away, pinching her nose with the other hand. Beth hops toward the door, smirks an inviting grin, “I wanna be able to eat off that skin of yours, mister.” Daryl laughs and attempts to pursue her. She thrusts her hands up in defense against that smell. She is surprised when he stops, but nods toward the stairs. “Get the towels, will you?” and she swaggers out through the screen door, feeling his eyes on her wide hips straining her jean shorts, “I’ll start the pump running.” 

“Dun get yer arm too tired,” his husky voice murmurs. 

“Ha ha!” she doesn’t turn around as the screen door slams behind her. 

————————————

No one really believed in the promise of running water when a plumber named Trevor and his small group of survivors found the 4H campground three years ago. The acreage had a couple of wells and a spring, but no one with the knowledge to tap these resources or the time to learn the necessary skills. Everyone had a job on the farm and gathering water was an accepted chore of every day life. Maybe a year later, Trevor delivered on his promise. He completed construction on a spring-fed gravity system for the old bath house out by the cabins. The long-neglected outbuilding, where 50 campers once shared 10 shower stalls, became everyone's project. Sprucing up the outside, new faucets and fixtures inside, every supply run included a stop at Home Depot or Lowe's. One enterprising couple even made a five day trek to a Bed, Bath, & Beyond. Sure, it was cold showers for the first six months or so. Then, they found enough solar storage barrels to keep the water warm, or even hot, depending on the time of day. The joys of hot showers were amplified ten fold last year when Trevor built each of the three main houses an outdoor shower in their backyards.

Beth skips her way around the house, giddy at the prospect of a private shower with Daryl. They've done it once or twice before, but it's so rare these days, always work to do. Always nosy neighbors nearby. And Blake's old enough to know exactly what's going on if they try something like this. But the house next door is out on a security detail today and Blake will be gone for hours.

There it is. Off to the right a ways from their back porch. Beth remembers going to the beach with her family on the Gulf of Mexico when she was a kid. Her new private shower reminds her of those showers on the beach, between the ocean and the hotel, where everyone could rinse off all the sand. A wooden enclosure surrounds their shower for privacy. The slates are seven feet tall. Beth loves their shower. These days, it’s her favorite place in the whole camp. Just beside the wall of the structure stands the water-giving pump for which she is so thankful. Beth's arm strains as she preps and cranks the pump, smirking to herself at Daryl's joke. There is a satisfying slushing sound as the machine gurgles to life, pulling water through the new pipes from the well. 

Almost as soon as the shower was built, she had Daryl add an ancillary “drying room”; with a wall separating the shower itself from the area where one could dry off and get ready, be presentable, rather than doing the mad, dripping dash from shower to house wrapped in a towel. They’d built a raised wooden floor for the shower and drying room this past winter, because at first it was dirt and mud beneath their feet. It got very slippery and messy. Beth found a crate of those decorative no slip mats that look like pebbles in a stream. She spent an evening arranging them over the entirety of the 5 x 5 shower floor. There weren't enough for the drying room. After taking her boots and socks off in the drying room, Beth creaks the shower's door open and admires her handy work. Her toes instinctively reach for the smooth "stones" of one of the mats. The soft rubbery surface is such a luxury. This whole structure is something she never dreamed of. As she closes the wooden door, her palm scrapes the edge and she smiles, with a flush of memory. The wooden walls give you splinters if you're pressed up against them. Beth's cheeks tighten, recalling how she and Daryl had to pick slivers of wood out of each other's skin last time. So worth it.

————————

Daryl is in the upstairs bathroom. One of Beth’s many quirks, which drives him crazy, is she keeps all their towels in the bathroom closet upstairs. It's about as far away as possible from anywhere they'd be useful! The towels would be best kept in the laundry room downstairs, with its door leading out to the yard where the shower is. But Beth makes up the bathrooms in the house, both of them, as if water will ever flow from their taps again. She says she’s confident Trevor will get water flowing in the houses again. Despite the plumber’s insistence that while the laundry room is a possibility, he’ll never get water running on the second floor, Beth keeps up the fantasy of normalcy. Electricity won’t happen in our lifetimes, she always says. But you wait, we’re going to have plumbing upstairs. While anticipating these miracles, Beth lives in preparation. She keeps the bathrooms full of necessities as though one day they’ll be working. He thinks it's foolish, but he loves it, because it's so very Beth. He fishes the fresh-smelling and neatly folded towels out of the bathroom closet. 

Then, like a lens-flare in his periphery, her bare flesh catches the sunlight outside. He turns, resting one forearm on the wall above his head beside the window. Looking out, Daryl realizes, for the first time, that their little wooden shower is clearly visible from the upstairs bathroom window. Well, damn, good thing they don’t have any guests up here! Did she know about this? Is that why she sent him to get towels? He pulls open the glossy little curtain, barely obscuring the light from outside, leans against the wall, and looks down at his wife. Her clothes lie in a crumpled pile, but she hasn’t taken her underwear off yet. Beth's inspecting herself in a mirror just outside the shower, in that silly drying room of hers. Well, at the moment, it's not silly at all. 

Daryl sets the towels down on the sink. He is convinced she knows he’s watching, so he’ll keep watching. 

Beth’s entered her thirties well, as far as Daryl is concerned. Her body doesn’t look much different than it ever did before. A decade on the farm, rather than on the run, plus two pregnancies left the most feminine parts of her a little plumper, softer. Her hips, thighs, and breasts, Daryl watches as she turns herself for appraisal in the mirror, are all noticeably larger. But she's still tone, all the larger parts trimmed by her days in the garden, nights on patrol, and the way she eats like a bird while her men devour entire animal carcasses in front of her. Fuck, she's so beautiful. Watching her run fingers through her hair, undoing the small braids, he smiles. Daryl feels like his younger self, embarrassed to be thinking of her sexually, confused and unsure by the idea that she's his, that she chose him. 

\-------------

Blake flops down next to a tree and takes his boots off. He wasn’t wearing socks, so as he folds the boots neatly into his bag, his toes grasp and curl the weeds in front of him. He loves going barefoot in the forest. Makes him a hundred times quieter, for one thing, plus he always feels closer to the living things all around him when he goes barefoot. Blake loves imagining a deep connection with the forest, a pulse, perhaps, that thrums through his bare feet from the moss, the trees, and every tiny fluttering thing in his surroundings. Maybe the woods supports him in his quest today, he supposes, as he pulls the most densely wrapped hidden item out of his bag.

Blake can't believe his luck. His mom even opened the backpack! If she'd checked anything at all, beyond just laying the cornbread in here, she'd have found his crossbow. He's not supposed to take it out without his dad. Blake's spent long days behind the barn, once he's done with all his chores, practicing his load of the 90 pound draw weight "little" bow his father gave him for his ninth birthday. His dad said he couldn't go out hunting with it until he could cock and load it at least three times in quick succession. Well, he isn't there yet. He can do it twice, and the second time is always slower than the first, but he hasn't mastered the third time in succession, let alone quickly. He spends hours with his foot in the metallic blue crossbow's extended stirrup (which feels as babyish as training wheels on a bike to him), drawing the bow, loading the bolt, aiming and firing at his large target sheet draped over a bail of hay. He gets winded by the third bolt, every time. It drives him crazy! Well, he won't need three bolts to kill that horrible possum, anyway.

The possum lived under the porch of one of the cabins for weeks. They should've set a trap for it, killed it a while ago. But they were using the bigger traps for raccoons and gophers that were feasting on important crops, and even getting in the compost bins. Those were higher priority than a possum people only ever saw at night and wasn’t bothering any of the crops or chickens. The farm had several dogs. Everyone figured one of the dogs’d kill the dumb possum sooner or later. But that ornery possum drew first blood. An old golden retriever mix, Lilly, Blake's favorite, had puppies a few weeks ago. But last night, that damn possum killed one of her puppies. Blake hadn’t even named that puppy yet! He was much more angry about it than he’d let his parents know. He cried about it last night, sure, but he got up this morning, asked politely to go out on his usual herbal collection mission today, and skipped off to his chores, so they wouldn't expect his real plan. 

Blake knows the rascal is easy to track and should be asleep now, wherever it’s found to hide and bed down its puppy-killing head. Lilly chased the possum for a while, before Dad called her back. Didn't want her getting diseases from the varmit, he said. Damn creature made it out of the compound fences and into the treeline beyond! Blake watched it go with hate in his heart. Lilly didn't seem so angry about her pup as Blake, though. This morning, she was fine, tending to her other pups happy as could be. Blake is furious. His fingers hurt cause he’s clenching his fists so hard.

Yesterday, he watched where the possum entered the treeline, he knows to begin his search for tracks about 10 yards north of here. Spotting them is a cinch, as expected, and Blake practically skips along the clear path the possum’s left in its wake.

\------------------

In the top corner of her mirror, Beth's watching the upstairs bathroom window, waiting. She notices the curtain pulled aside. Her insides beam the smile she won't show on her face. If she smiles, he’ll have the satisfaction of _knowing_ that she knows he's watching. And that wouldn’t be any fun at all. Beth shimmies her shoulders a little, inspecting the fit of her bra straps. Bras are easier to come by these days, as they’re about 10 miles from a mall with a Victoria Secrets, a JCPenney’s, and a Belk. Most of the clothing stores haven’t been touched as much as you’d expect. There’s just not enough survivors in the world to pick them all clean. She’s wearing a bra that doesn’t have clasps in the back, it’s more like a sports bra. She lifts her arms up over her head and scowls at her underarm hair with a snort. In a swift motion, the bra is discarded on the floor. She second guesses herself and picks it up, draping it on one of the many nails she drove into the drying room wall for hangers.

Beth deliberately tries not to be alluring. She pretends she’s preparing for a shower normally, like she would if Daryl wasn’t watching. The act is failing. She can feel it, because she’s never been a good liar. Still, Beth does the least sexy things she can think of. Conducting a breast exam, for example, turning each way, lifting her arms, feeling the mounds of her breasts from the edge of her clavicle, through her armpits down around her areolas with circular movements of her fingertips. She knows Daryl is probably laughing up there right now, but she doesn’t care. Of course there’s not a damn thing anyone with cancer would be able to do about it! But there’s an odd nostalgia for the world of her youth in the simple action of checking herself for lumps.

Beth’s suspicion is right. Daryl is chuckling at her as he watches. He thinks it’s cute that’s she trying so hard to pretend he’s not watching.

She’s mostly entertaining herself at this point. Wondering when Daryl will get annoyed enough to make an appearance at last. She shrugs her shoulders, removes her underwear, opens the shower door, and steps in to turn on the water and let it get warm.

The advancement from the mirror room into the shower itself is all the signal Daryl needs to know the show is over. He chuckles and adjusts himself, where his jeans chaff. Silly as her display was, she got him started, alright. There's a warm lust swimming beneath his skin. The anticipation reminds him again of the way it was years ago between them, dangerous, dirty, wrong, but more right than anything else had ever been. He's deep in these memories as he descends the stairs. Daryl removes his boots and socks in the laundry room. The taste of her sweat and the smell of pine needles stuck to her skin swirls in his subconscious. On impulse, he pulls his shirt over his head, removes his belt. He's not worried about being seen when he trots out from the laundry room over to the shower. He holds on to those early visions of their aggressive, secretive trysts in the woods. Daryl's blood throbs and his skin tightens over muscles taut with intent. He exhales through his nose when he reaches the wooden door to Beth's drying room. His mouth has salivated, knowing what's coming, and for just a moment, he stands and enjoys the pulse of his appetite for her. Then Daryl opens the door. 

Beth hears him come in, over the water. She's scrubbing soap under her armpits, really quickly, just so she doesn't smell herself when he's first in here, with her. Then she smiles, remembering how much he stunk earlier and that she better not let him near her before he does the same. He's still in the drying room. She thinks she can hear him taking off his jeans and boxers. Beth's thighs squirm against one another and there's a tightness at the base of her spine. Why does it feel like she's 19 again? Anxious and excited, with a twinge of naughty shame clenching her teeth? Beth's been with this man a million times. And twice in this shower. Perhaps it's that they haven't played a game of anticipation like this, baiting each other, since before Blake was born? She remembers the way he used to stalk her during the day when they were in a group of people, his eyes letting her know what was coming once they were alone. Beth bites her lower lip. What's he waiting for? She's been staring at the door too long, willing him to come in. She turns away from it, dowses her face and hair in the water. Maybe she won't hear the door open now? Maybe he'll just slide in silently behind her? She smiles. 

A streaming rivulet of water courses down her spine. He slides a finger up the smooth current, riding against it from the spot just above the dimples of her lower back all the way to the nape of her neck. Daryl watches her muscles clench with the joy of it. He smiles, seeing the reaction, and traces a return path down, further, to the edge of her tail bone, the brim of the cleft between her perfect ass cheeks. Daryl appreciates once more the years of eating well and the process of motherhood that plumped up the fleshier parts of his young wife. Her body doesn’t feel sinfully too young to him anymore, and definitely not so fragile as he once believed. His finger lingers with the lightest pressure. The memories of the past are put aside by the perfection of the present.

Beth turns in appreciation, but as he reaches for her, she steps aside so his hand finds only the jets of water. "What'd I tell you Mr. Dixon?" she coos and tilts her head towards the water. They both watch as a rush of red brown flows down his forearms and drips off his elbows. Daryl curls the fingers of both hands before him and flexes them again in the shower water, smirking at the filth that sprinkles down in droplets. His eyes flash to Beth and he flicks his wrists, trying to hit her with a miniature shower of dirty water from his hands. Beth shrieks with laughter and cowers back toward the corner, but not without tossing the bar of soap at him in defense. She watches with appetite as her husband quickly suds up his hands, underarms, and groin, rinsing each with his predator's eyes on her.

Daryl takes one stalking step towards her and pauses. "Better?" his head cocks with the question.

Beth pretends to sniff the air. “Better," she smiles and the very tip of her tongue pokes out to lick her bottom lip. Then she purses her lips and flashes big eyes up at him, "Now, you should do that again,” she purrs, gliding toward him, but without touching, she dodges and stands once more in the stream of water, “down the front.” Daryl is happy to comply. He follows the current from between her breasts to the beginning of her patch of curly dirty blond hair. When she sighs, he pulls her to him and kisses her slow and fierce. He releases her mouth and her head drops instinctively against his chest, cheek pressed to his heart. There’s a growl of protest in her throat when she mummers against his skin, “We’re wasting water, Daryl.”

”Better make it quick, then,” with two straddling steps, his body saddles hers against the wall. A hand clenching her hip pivots just enough to suggest she turn around and she does so with the pleasure of coursing her breasts across his torso while her thighs glance along his groin. The tease is more than enough. He responds with a demanding thrust that instantly gets her situated, face out of the stream of water, eyes glancing back over her shoulder at him, ready. Now the warm water is beating his chest. He has a moment of pride for the Navy high efficiency, high pressure nozzle he installed, then snaps back to the task at hand. He strokes himself, once, twice, just looking at her. The curves, the come-hither smirk in those glistening eyes, all his. Confirming his claim, he takes her, quick and deep, then slowly in and out, adjusting her up to him, on her toes. His forearm braces over her head, against the rough, wet wood. And she moves with him, arching her ass into his pelvis, clenching him inside, all her tricks that pull him out of his mind and into her, body and soul.

They vibrate together, still connected, after a pair of rough, out of sync, climaxes. The water that felt so warm at first, now a cooling sensation against the heat of their sex, unwilling to disjoin for the moment. It’s when Beth eases down off her tip toes to rest the arches and heels of her feet on the cool tile that Daryl is forced to withdraw.

\-------------

“Shit! Dad!” Blake shouts as soon as he sees those damn walkers. He tears ass away from them, running and wishing he hadn’t shouted like a coward. Maybe they wouldn’t have noticed him? Regardless, he’s much faster. Blake runs for the safety of his father’s tree stand, and clambers up the rungs of the emergency chain ladder that hangs down from the platform high in the branches. When he reaches the top, he pulls up the ladder, rolling it into a tight log on the rim of the perfectly square hole in the floor that serves as the only way in or out of the hunter’s perch. Feeling secure, but not yet unafraid, Blake looks out over the wooden walls of the platform. The geeks are about 20 feet away. He pulls his radio out of his belt and clicks the distress code in a series of beeps to his dad. He tries to muffle the sounds of the beeps with his sweatshirt. It doesn’t work, they seem to echo through the forest, pounding in his ears.

For several tense, quiet moments, the wind rattling through the slats of wood around him, and the shuffling grunts below, are all Blake hears, above the pounding of his heartbeat. It’s been too long already. His trembling fingers fumble with the sweatshirt-wrapped radio. He sounds the distress code again, and this time he’s sure the walkers below heard it, because they grumble and gurgle in response. Finally, a two tone beep-boop sounds from the radio, signaling his father understood and is en route. They’d always agreed on the tree stand as their place of refuge. The hunter's hideout was built before Blake's parents moved to this farm. His dad made lots of improvements, like the chain ladder instead of metal grated stairs that once angled up from the ground. The ladder is actually a fire safety ladder, designed for people to roll out a second or third story window and escape a house or apartment fire. Blake’s got one under his bed in his room as well. He snaps back into focus when he hears a walker tear bark off his tree. Blake pulls out his collapsible mini-crossbow from his backpack. The geeks are right under him, looking up through the hole in the floor. He strains as he cocks a bolt and pulls the 90 pound draw taut.

He has a direct line of sight. He can take his time and aim. Thank God it’s just the five of them. At the thought of his Maker, Blake thinks of his mother and tugs the delicate chain round his neck until a little metal cross falls out from its resting place over his heart. He kisses the cross and prays for safety and strength for himself and his Daddy. And he thanks Jesus for the small group below not being a bigger swarm or something worse, like a bear.

It’s only a small, little group, his mind breathes reassurance. 

But what if they’re the first wave of a flood of the creepy things? His dad will take care of it. Blake’s got nothing to fear. The burning in his lungs begins to fade.

He can take one or two out before his father gets here. That way Dad’s not so outnumbered. High above them, Blake watches the group below. He slows his breathing like his dad taught him and takes his time aiming at the head of the zombie in the center of the other four. It looks right up at Blake. A man, with dark black hair and skin that might have been Indian in origin, once, but is mostly mottled gray, now, stares cloudy-eyed and open-mouthed. Blake takes one final long breath and says “God, forgive me.” Then he pulls the trigger and watches, for the first time ever, as the brains of a zombie are skewered by his own weapon. The geek was in the center of the group, so as he falls, he knocks the others back and two of them stumble down to their knees. One of the zombies notices the direction from which the bolt came and looks up at Blake; a woman this time, his stomach turns. Why do they have to stare at him as he kills them? His heart races with adrenaline and all thoughts are gone, he doesn’t even notice that he’s reloaded and cocked before he pulls the trigger again, all on instinct now, and the second walker falls down and does not get up. Only three left. But he reaches into his pack and realizes there’s just two bolts. And no food or water up here! His mind races in survival mode, not remembering the cornbread in his bag, or that he could hide out up here, safe, for as long as needed, because his parents will come. His feelings block out all rational thoughts. 

His heart burns and thunders in panic. Blake sits up, away from the hole in the floor, his back pressed against the wall of the stand. Sweat trails down his forehead, the salt of it stings his eyes. He swallows. He has to shoot the other two bolts. He has to. But the sound of those bolts cracking the skulls of the first two. His stomach roils at the immediacy of it. The slosh of viscera flumping down to the ground was nothing like the first time he killed a rabbit or a turkey. The look on the woman’s face when the bolt went into her left eye socket, she’d been wearing eye makeup, a ton of it, when she died. When he killed her. Tears smear the dirt on Blake’s cheeks. He can’t stop them, no matter how hard he sniffles and chokes and wipes at the offensive wetness all over his face. He hates himself for being so weak.

“Blake!” Daryl calls from below. “You alright up there, son?” 

Blake can’t face his dad with tears running down his face. He’s embarrassed, nauseous and sad. Worst of all, he’s mad at all those feelings. 

“Yeah!” he calls, without looking down through the hole. Dad will think he’s weak, for sure. Blake’ll never be a bad-ass like his father. He couldn’t even fire his last two bolts! His dad took on those geeks three to one. Blake distantly remembers hearing his father’s first bolt thwack into the tree, with a zombie head crunch as the body hit the ground. He was too busy panicking and being a coward to look down and see his father finish the job. But of course everything was safe now, no more walkers, just a scared little piss-ant in a tree stand, with his father calling up to him.

“Lower the ladder, now, boy, com’n,” his dad’s voice is different, softer, “We oughta get home. Your mom heard your distress call too, you know.” At that, Dad must have remembered he could reassure Mom back at the house, now that the danger’s past. Blake hears the radio static and the beeps, signaling his mom, giving her the all clear. Blake kicks the bundled chain of the ladder and it unrolls down to his father’s waiting hands. 

The boy retreats to a corner and buries his head in crossed arms rested on bunched up knees. When Daryl gets up there, sees his son sitting balled up in the corner, he exhales a heavy sigh. And his heart races at a sudden fear: 

“You ain’t bit, Blake?” he rasps, climbing up into the tree stand, “Tell me if you’re bit.” 

“I ain’t,” his voice sounds wimpy and babyish to his own ears. Dammit, after crying over Lily’s puppy last night, this is too much! Blake sniffles when he tries to breathe in, a bunch of boogers signifying his tears, adding to his shame. 

Daryl's first fear relieved, he notices the metallic blue crossbow on the other side of the tree stand. Looks as though it was flung over there. Must've been the thump he heard when he got here. He looks below at the pile of dead walkers. Two of them have metallic blue bolts in their skulls. Daryl looks back over at his son. A sick twisting anger clutches Daryl's gut. Blake's safe now, sure, but he's also a disobedient little shit who shouldn't have gotten in this mess to begin with!

"What's your bow doing here, boy? Where's your .22?" Blake's supposed to take the pistol with him in the forest. He's a better shot with it and it's got a ten round clip. Blake could've taken down all five of these walkers with it. And they would've heard the shots from the house, gotten here sooner. Daryl can tell the kid ran all the way here, with no way to defend himself. Didn't call his parents on the radio until he made it to the tree stand. Reckless bullshit, and now Blake’s giving him the silent treatment. Daryl can see the kid's hurting, so he tries to keep his voice in check. "You hear me ask you a question?"

"Yessir," Blake snarls to his knee caps, not raising his head to address his father respectfully. He doesn't care if his dad kills him at this point. He wishes he was dead. He hates himself. He growls with as much anger as he can muster through the sticking snot of his shameful tears: "My pistol's at the house, sir," 

Plenty of times Daryl's wanted to hit his son. He's never done it. But the urge snakes down from his bunched shoulders to his clenched fists. The boy needs a backhand to the mouth. That's what Daryl got from his old man, if he was ever stupid enough to act so fucking disrespectful, back then. But Daryl's sworn since the day Blake came out, he wouldn't hit the kid. He knows something in him would snap; he wouldn't be able to stop. He's never been good at stopping once he starts to hit something. He'd take it too far. Just like his fucking father and Merle. He doesn't know what to do with the rage building up inside him. Beth always tells him to be honest about it. Tell her how he's feeling and all that shit. Fine. Boy deserves the same.

"Ain't never wanted to hit you so bad as I do right now," Daryl's voice menaces. Blake squeaks with fear against his knees. Then the child clamps up, as if bracing for the blow to come. Daryl sees that mechanical survivalist jerk of his son's muscles and the anger deflates out of his chest, back-filled by regret. 

Blake swallows hard. He’s too quiet. He should say something. This may be the first truly candid exposure he’s ever had to his father’s thoughts. He also can’t imagine being struck by his father. Well, he can, but the fear of how painful it would be clouds his imagining. Blake doesn’t think an apology will suffice after his dad saying something like that. 

“You listening to me?” Daryl challenges his son. It’s like the little brat wants to get hit. 

“I deserve it.” Blake confesses to his knees in utter defeat. Just like his mother, always reading Daryl’s mind, saying shit right after he thinks it.

“You’re right, you do.” Daryl’s jaw works. His fists no longer ache for something to hit. Blake’s admission depressurizes his father's fury. With one long inhale and exhale, Daryl is relieved enough to think again. Beth will be so proud. He used his words, like she taught him, he smirks. Then Daryl notices Blake is still clamped up and tense like a scared dog. “Stop cowering. I won’t hit ya.” The boy noticeably relaxes. After a few seconds of silence, as father and son's ragged breaths slow together, Blake sighs and says:

“Why not?”

“I ever start, won’t be able to stop.” More honesty, Daryl's discomfort tightens his chest. That, and squatting in this low-roofed side of the damn tree stand. He crab walks, hunched over, to Blake’s side and sits down, leaned against the wall, looking up through the tree leaves at the clouds. With an open sky above and his son safe beside him, the weight of his words lifts from his lungs just enough so he can breathe again.

“That cause you was beat?” Blake asks, then realizes it’s none of his business, might piss his dad off even more, and blurts: “Cody says you was beat. That’s what them scars on your back are.”

“I was.” Daryl is matter of fact, wishing he had a cigarette. So, they’re talking this out now, that’s fine. But damn it’d be easier if the boy was older, and they could do it over a beer. 

"“Who did that to you?” Blake has a rare opportunity, this may not last long. His dad’s talking to him like a man, not like a kid. It’s one of those moments you remember forever when you think of the transition from childhood to adulthood. He wants to sit up straighter, rolls his shoulders back, so he’s more mature looking. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve. He tries to make eye contact with his father, but Daryl stares straight ahead. 

“My pa, mostly,” Daryl sighs with a rasp from deep in his smoked-out lungs,“Would’ve had the shit kicked outta me if I spoke to him the way you just barked at me.” Blake could feel his father's muscles harden beside him. "Later on, was my brother or his shit-heel friends."

Blake can’t believe it. “The brother I’m named after?”

“Uh-huh.” And for a brief moment Daryl regrets adding the name to Blake’s identity. But then he reminds himself aloud, “S’only one I had.” 

Blake tries to imagine anyone powerful enough to beat up his dad. The man next to him could never have been small, ever, or weak. Even when he was a kid, his father must have been a badass, right? Blake opens his mouth to say ‘I’m sorry,’ but then remembers that whenever his mom says it, his dad always replies: ‘Wasn’t your fault.’ So he leans his chin on his folded arms and sits quiet in thought, looking away at nothing. He always imagined Uncle Merle was much like his dad. Maybe taller, because Merle was the older brother. But Blake never imagined one of his namesakes as mean or violent. His parents often talk about Herschel, his grandfather, but they've never told him any stories about Merle. Now he knows why.

Daryl shrugs his shoulders, nudging Blake. “Look up at me, will you?” Blake obeys and Daryl wasn’t ready for the wave of relief in really seeing his child’s face, unharmed by walkers. He blows out the breath he was holding through his nostrils. Then clicks his teeth, remembering, “Why’d you take your bow out 'stead of your gun?”

Blake sees no reason to lie at this point, “Cause I wanted to hurt that possum. Wanted it to die slow, like Lilly’s puppy did.” 

Finally all this childishness makes sense to Daryl. He should’ve known Blake wasn’t the kind to take the pup’s death so calmly as he pretended to last night. 

“What’ve we told you 'bout trying to get revenge, huh?” 

“Only makes things worse.” 

His father gestures down below them. "Worse alright" And Daryl shakes his head, his eyes cut over Blake in a squint. "Wouldn't have been near so much trouble, you had your damn gun. We have rules for a reason, son!"

"Yessir." Blake grimaces. What if he'd had his gun? The eyes of the dead woman he shot look up at him in his memory. He's going to have to retrieve his bolts. His stomach turns at the thought of pulling it out of her. "Dad," he swallows, "I dunno if I could've shot'em all, either way." Daryl can see the nausea rising pale and clammy up his son's features. Well, that's it. There's no more anger left in Daryl at all. The kid's done the best he could.

"You did good,” Daryl’s hand rests on Blake’s shoulder to ground and steady the boy. “Took cover in the tree stand, called for help, shot what you could. You did like I taught you. Just right.” 

Blake starts to shudder at those words of kindness he knows he doesn't deserve. “Yeah, but I couldn’t finish the job,” he moans, "You were," his voice breaks, "outnumbered... and..." he bites back tears and breathes, “I didn’t get the possum. His trail’s long gone thanks to the dang walkers!” Blake sniffle-snarls.

Kid's already punishing himself worse than a father ever could. Daryl isn't unsympathetic, but he's forgotten something with all this talking. “Gotta get you home,” Daryl clears his throat and rises to a squat, heading toward the door. “Can’t believe your mom hasn’t radioed a dozen times already.”

—————

After Beth gushes over Blake’s living, un-bitten, body for a few minutes, she immediately grounds him to the house. “With the exception of chores,” she folds her arms and sets her chin, “which will be predominantly house-based in the days ahead, mister!”  

“Yes, ma’am,” Blake’s voice is shallow, resigned to the inevitable. He blinks away the sting in his eyes. This fresh pain isn’t from his mother’s anger or fear, but because his father is in the barn, or the shop, or somewhere, hiding Blake’s crossbow until such time ‘as you can be trusted to touch it again.’ Thinking of his father, Blake takes the opportunity to talk to his mother. He clears his throat. She looks at him. “Dad gave me _‘the talk’_ today,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands as they play with the rim of a glass of milk she just poured him.

Beth is taken aback. She almost spills the jug. Why the devil would Daryl think to talk about… wait a second, she recovers:   

“What talk, sweetheart?” 

“About his Pa.” 

Oh. She exhales. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Blake sniffles and wipes his nose with his forearm, “You ever meet Daddy’s Pa?” 

“No, he was long gone before I met your Daddy.” Beth sits down at the table across from her son and realizes he looks older somehow after his ordeal today. It’s in his eyes. 

“Does it hurt him real bad?” Blake asks, in a small voice. 

“What’s that sweetheart?” 

“His back?” 

Beth sighs, remembering the first time with Daryl… how he was fearful to remove his shirt in front of her. “I don’t think it hurts him anymore, no, but he used to hate doing anything with his shirt off in front of people.” 

“Wow. And it’s so hot all the time,” Blake muses, thinking of how often everyone sees his Daddy’s scars now. The old man takes his shirt off whenever it’s sweaty out. 

“Yeah, he’s not ashamed anymore,” Beth smiles at her little boy, her little man. Her heart tugs at a memory of cuddling with him when he was small. Will she never get to hold him like that again? She shakes it off. “Daddy knows that life, with his father, was a million years ago. He’s safe now.” She watches as Blake gulps a swig of milk, almost finishing off the glass. He’s preparing to say something, but looks unsure. “What else did your father tell you?” 

“He said his brother used to beat him up too,” Blake’s eyes shoot to one side, annoyed, “His brother Merle, the one I’m named after?” 

“That’s what I heard,” Beth looks out the window, remembering. “I only met Merle once. But he helped to save our group back then. He tried to save us, anyway,” Blake looks like he’s about to ask, but she cuts him off. “And for a long time, when Daddy was young, before the zombies, he and Merle were a team, just the two of them against the world. Merle was a good man, under all his anger and meanness, I think.” 

“Does Daddy miss him?” Somehow, this looks like the question Blake really needs answered.  

“Every day, baby. Every single day.” 

“Oh.” 

Beth stands and walks over to her son, runs her fingers through his greasy hair. He’s still her baby, her one and only. “Why don’t you get ready for dinner, hmm? Change your clothes, maybe? Wash up?” 

“Sure thing, mom,” he gets up and starts to walk away, but he turns at the door, “I’m really sorry for scaring you.” 

Her throat catches. “Just don’t do something so foolish again, okay love?” and she smiles, “Please learn from your mistakes?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

As Blake sags out of the living room and his footfalls make dejected thumps upstairs, Daryl stomps through the front door, the screen thwacking shut behind him. He growls at the sound, “I swear I’ll tear that thing off its hinges one day.” He looks around. “Where’s Blake?” 

“Heading upstairs to get ready for dinner,” she crosses the room to embrace him in a rib-cracking hug. “Thank you for saving him.” 

Daryl grunts and wraps his arms around Beth, sighing deeply. He rests his chin on her crown. “Damn kid’s gonna kill me,” he exhales in a rasp. 

“He’s miserable about the crossbow,” she nuzzles into him.  

Daryl snorts. “Good.” 

“When will you give it back to him?” 

“Might never,” and she feels Daryl’s chin work as he chews on his lips, “boy can’t be responsible with it.” 

“He just idolizes you, like everyone else,” she squeezes him. He responds by rubbing her back. One of his rough hands comes up her forearm. 

“You get all the splinters out?” He smirks. Earlier, Beth wrapped her forearms around her boobs to protect them from splinters while Daryl took her from behind. She blushes scarlet, looking up at the stairs. Then laughs.  

“Was only one, actually!” She pulls back in the embrace to brandish her arms at him. “Look, not a scratch!” 

“Maybe all the sanding’s finally done the trick, huh?” Daryl and Blake both work to sand and smooth the walls of the shower periodically. 

“Or my skin’s getting tougher.” 

He pinches some of her flesh, just above her hip and she squeaks. 

“Naw,” he smiles. “You keep using all that lotion, you’re slick as a snake.” 

“A SNAKE?!” Beth shrieks and feigns hitting him, swinging her hands to slap at his shoulders as he dodges. He scoops her up on her toes, finally, and kisses her one quick peck on the lips. 

“What’s fer dinner?” 

“No idea. Probably more leftovers, I haven’t started anything, of course,” she pecks his lips again, “Why don’t you fix us something?” Daryl laughs at the thought. He’s enjoys cooking, but right now he’s to the point where he might fall down from exhaustion already. His husband and father duties for the day are done, he hopes. 

Blake comes trundling down the stairs. 

“Blake!” His mother grins as she spins around to look at him, his dad’s arms still around her waist. They both look happy. He guesses they should be. It’s almost contagious until his mom chirps: “Honey, why don’t you fix us supper tonight?” 

“Oh mom…” he whines, “I can’t…” 

Daryl clears his throat with menace in his eyes. 

Blake drops his head with a wretched sigh. “Fine. What is there to cook, anyway?” 

Beth and Daryl march with their son out to the drying shed and then the cold cellar, to look for ingredients for a stew. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, you guys are the best. I hope you all have more ideas to keep me writing. I don't watch the show anymore, though, so keep that in mind if you make requests! Thank you, a thousand times, thank you. Writing this for you is a blast. I know it took half a year to finish Chapter 2. But bear with me. There's lots to distract me in the summer. Now that it's Fall, I'll be indoors and writing more. The third and final chapter with Blake at 17 years old may actually post before Christmas. Haha. Hugs and hugs! ~Sintina

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Will be 3 chapters, once it's done. Their son will be a different age in each chapter: 5 years old, 10-12, and then 17.


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